


Pylades Dead

by brilliantbrioche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantbrioche/pseuds/brilliantbrioche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there weren't any reasons for Grantaire to be alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pylades Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta's - all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Can someone give me a hug please?

Grantaire was sad again. He knew it would come; the happiness - no not happiness, it was more the simple ability to _live -_ would disappear and the other thing would come back. The other thing that had him struggling to get out of bed and even then would keep him stood at the top of the stairs in tears trying to will himself into going down and facing the world. The other thing that weighted him down to the floor unable to move; unable to feel apart from the constant unease and uselessness. It was always there. The other thing - the other _him._

Grantaire was sad again and he wanted to die.

Because it wasn't just sadness; he could live with that. He had lived with that most his life. It was the pointlessness, the worthlessness; why was he even here? No one wanted him.

He knew that. Sat on the floor of his bedroom, he knew that. No one had texted him, no one had called, no one missed him and no one cared.

No one would ever miss him.

He was just a useless body; a chunk of meat that took up too much space and laughed too loud.

Oh, but someone _had_ texted him now. Contact. But they didn't before; they didn't care before, they never care. He could be lying in the bathroom with his blood painting the floor and they wouldn't care. He would be absent of course, afterward; the place where he once sat would be empty and his possessions would be handed out (not that anyone would want them) and people would be aware of that. They would glance at his chair and think ‘ _oh Grantaire used to sit there’_ but Grantaire would be gone and it wouldn't matter. He would be replaced and no one would miss him. It would just be a fact.

Grantaire was dead.

Just a fact. 

Grantaire was going to die.

Oh but his phone was buzzing again now. He supposed he really should check that.

**From Joly, To Grantaire:**

**You Okay? <3**

 

Grantaire let out a bitter laugh at that. The short answer was ‘no’ but Grantaire was never one to turn down an opportunity to rant. So why not be a complete dick? Why not make them hate you even more? Why not write a suicide note? You're too shitty not to.

So he did.

**From Grantaire, To Everyone:**

**Sorry. Thats the first thing they say, isn't it? I’m sorry I’m dead now. I’m not, sorry that is, but never mind. I suppose I should also say this isn't your fault. It really isn’t, I promise. It’s only mine.**

**I do have a reason, surprisingly, and that reason is me, unsurprisingly. If I can't cope with this small section of life then how am I supposed to deal with the rest of it? If I can’t cope with a mock week how am I supposed to cope with a job or a family or a life? How am I supposed to cope with anything?**

**None of this was anyones fault but mine; remember that. Don’t remember me. Please. Just forget me, I doubt it will be hard. I am glad I am gone and you should be too.**

**After all, wine gets better with age does it not? I will not age, I love wine and the peace it can bring but I am not a bringer of tranquility. My peace haunts me; the bottle haunts me. You do not. You are wonderful people; you are my wine without the pain. Grow old. Grow better with age, please.**

**Live for me.**

**-R.**

And that was that. Grantaire smiled and drank the remainder of the bottle that had warmed his hand for the past hour. Replace the bottle with pills and the wine with knives that pierce the skin and he was set.

Down they go; more than he could count. The cut a fall back plan. If one didn't work than the other surely would?

Of course time doesn't play by the rules. The knocking at the door is a minute too late.

Everything is always a minute too late or a minute too long. Minutes were people that make up time and memories but now one was gone.

Grantaire was gone.


End file.
